In Albany there is a weekly gathering called “Spin Jam” where the local (and sometimes not) fire spinners collect, practice, and share skills. It takes place down by the Hudson riverfront where there is also a large homeless population.
One evening a drunken homeless man rode his bike into what the spinners refer to as “the Eye” (an eye-shaped section of pavement outlined by bricks of a different color where fire spinning takes place and spectators are not allowed for safety reasons), parked it in the center, and began to look around confused as if lost. Two of the male spinners approached him aggressively; cursing and yelling and demanding that he move. This, of course, turned the man’s expression from confused to matched aggressive.
As I sat watching the altercation I thought to myself, “This is going to turn ugly if I don’t do something,” and so I did. I stood up, grabbed my fire hoop, and approached the man. As sweetly as I could I asked, “Excuse me sir? I am trying to spin fire and your bike is in the way. Can you please move?”
The man looked from the male spinners to me with the face of a wounded animal ready to attack, and so I repeated the question. His face changed. He still didn’t understand what was going on. He, again, looked confused.
“Can you please move your bike?” again I asked, sweetly.
His face changed once more. This time it seemed to show relief and the realization that his safety was not being threatened. He moved his bike out of the Eye and rode away.
Aggression is (most often) not the tactical solution.
There is great strength to be found in softness.
This lesson was repeated for me on another occasion:
The school by my house was under construction and some of the workers had taken to parking in front of our house to hang out in their cars playing loud music and smoking cigarettes for long periods of time.
While I was away one day my partner sent me photos of them, venting his frustrations in an angry and aggressive way. “I don’t even want to be outside anymore! I’m so on edge,” he proclaimed.
The next morning just me and my son were in the front yard when the men from the photos pulled up, parked, and lit up their cigarettes. At first, I tensed up; my interaction with my son and our sunflowers now was an unwilling performance to strange men. I felt the anger rising up in me. The audacity of these men to think that they can be such a threat to the privacy of my home. I thought of going inside; of hiding.
And then I remembered my power.
I began to empathize with the men, recognizing that they didn’t intentionally stir up these feelings in me; they were just trying to enjoy their work break.
Going over to the fence I spoke out to them, “Excuse me guys, are you here working on the school?”
“Yes,” one replied.
“Can you please park closer to the school then?” I asked, sweetly.
“Yeah, of course,” he replied. “We’ll park over in the school’s parking lot.”
“Thank you so much!”
And they drove off! No argument. No aggression. No nonsense.
I’ve been told that I am “lucky”; that isn’t so. I am tactical, cunning, and adorable, while also being empathic, and kind, and the combination of these things gives me great power that is often seen as luck.
